


Wounds are Full of Salt

by yuffiehighwind



Series: An Eternity in Cheese Country [17]
Category: Hercules: The Legendary Journeys, Xena: Warrior Princess
Genre: Dual Identity, F/M, Gen, M/M, Milwaukee, Modern Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-01-01
Updated: 2003-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 02:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuffiehighwind/pseuds/yuffiehighwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Discord's name as a human is Veronica, and she struggles with the memories of two lives and an enduring love for a man she barely appreciated back home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wounds are Full of Salt

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of the 'fic series "An Eternity in Cheese Country," and here's why - after they were killed by Callisto and Xena, the souls of Strife, Discord, and Deimos were reincarnated in the late 20th century into three humans named Steve, Veronica, and Dave.

It is cold. The kind of cold that makes your teeth ache, Veronica thinks to herself as she barrels down (what is it?) let’s say Tenth Street, though it isn’t the name. Veronica  _knows_  it isn’t the name. All the streets have dead men’s names, never numbers. It’s numbers where Milwaukee overlaps upon itself, but here are only dead faces, wispy memories in the ice. It’s almost March, and there will be a warm wind coming from across the plains, at least according to the fat weathermen with their insulated carbon-chugging heated condos, but right now it is cold. Aching cold like a fucking tundra on her face, and Veronica never bought a scarf. What did she know about cold? Nothing, that’s what. Never bothered to know. Never  _needed_  to, ‘til her… _move_  to Wisconsin.

Wisconsin wasn’t always cold. Just the winters. Bitter winters like her heart. No, don’t start fucking comparing  _feelings_  to everything. The football stadium, the vendors, the dog shitting on the sidewalk. No, Veronica, don’t do  _that_. Then you’ll  _know_  you’re one of…them.

She looks up from the ever-so-mesmerizing sidewalk to glance at the people. People rushing through the cold, tripping over snow, talking, whispering in hushed tones to each other, thinking about where they are going, who they are going to meet, and what they will do once they get there. Work. Eat lunch. Fuck. Isn’t it all the same? They are all the fucking same. But isn’t she, too? Isn’t Veronica doing that very thing?  _Living?_

Almost slip on ice and look down. Concentrate on where you’re walking, Veronica. Can’t float above. You’re not exempt from icy sidewalks. Not anymore.

Veronica arrives at her destination – a squat, gray building with fogged up windows sitting like the fat kid in gym class waiting to get picked for teams. Veronica feels like one of the kids arguing over who should have to take him. He’ll slow her down, right? The other team will have the advantage. Yeah, that’s what people think passing by the sad, foggy doors everyday, with its chipping gray paint and littered alleyway beside it. A cat stares at her, daring her to relinquish all precepts of good taste and proper behavior and just go inside, God damn it. She looks around, embarrassed. That cat said something in her head. She must be going mad again. That’s what her doctor says, when he’s not trying to see up her skirt. You’re delusional, Veronica. Cats don’t talk to you, or cows. Why would they care to?

No one’s around to judge but neither is the feline when Veronica’s gaze returns to the alleyway. She lets out a breath (not a sigh, never a sigh) and watches as the air fills up white with the heat and fades off into the sky like a smoke cloud. Fascinated, she does it again, and she’s taken back to burning villages and mothers screaming and her teeth aches. She wonders why it doesn’t make her belly warm anymore, to think of these things, and exhales again. It’s cold, is all. It’s the cold that makes her mouth dry and keeps her up at night, grasping at blankets to bury herself in. Not the memories. Doctor says to forget. It wasn’t real. She’s Veronica Diana Mathis, an exotic dancer from Los Angeles forced to live… _here_ , for any number of reasons. She can’t remember what they were. Steve. Yeah, forced to live here because of Steve. Then again, the dreams could be real. They were real to her in August. She remembers August so clearly. Wore tight mini-skirts and bustiers. Didn’t need to know the names of streets and didn’t watch her breath hit the air like it was the only thing reminding her she was alive.

No, she feels every second.

It could be age, could be a disease of the mind, but Veronica feels all the time like she is dying, just a little bit. She feels death everywhere. In her fingers and toes and especially at night when the stupid clock Steve bought ticks and she can’t help but count them. Tick, tick, tick. Another piece of her gone forever.

She can feel at the back of her mind the memories of a time when each second made her stronger. Each tick was a thousand ticks and sixty seconds was never a minute because there was no end, no death. All she could feel was life in her limbs, in her fingertips. She wonders if that is what being born is like. She can’t remember being born, only being. One day she  _was_  and then one day she  _wasn’t_. She was  _here_. Wisconsin.

Veronica pushes on the sad, foggy glass door and feels a rush of hot air hit her. He’s blasting the heat again. They have no money for heat at home and here he is blasting the heat at the studio, trying to regain that wet, Mediterranean feel. No wonder the windows are foggy.

The cat follows in after her.

"Steve, what the fuck? It’s like the Amazon in here, for God’s sake!"

Powerful women, muscles bulging, a spear passing through a deer and the tribe has food again. Veronica brushes the thought off with the snow on her coat. The cat nuzzles by her feet and she resists the urge to kick it.

"We have no money. Correction. Almost no money and you’re blasting heat at this fucking studio while I’m out there freezing my ass off."

Steve emerges from the storage closet, and yeah, there she goes again. Bitching. Always bitching. At least Dimitri didn’t bitch. Left him the studio, after all. They’re not even spending their own money, but Veronica  _needs_  something to complain about. It’s like oxygen for her. He sits down at his desk, his feet up on it and lets her go.

"Get your fucking feet off the desk and don’t give me that look. What? What is it? I have something on my face?"

Steve smiles. He’s used to it now, this life. He’s been here longer. Sometimes he has to try to remember how he was. Always…moving. Like her.

"I’m just thinking, Discord. You know, about how it used to be."

Oh no, not this again. Veronica plops onto his desk, shoving a snowy boot in his face. "Steve, it didn’t happen. We’re not Greek, we never  _were_  Greek, we never alternately fucked a gorgeous, tan, older man with long, black hair and my name is not _Discord."_

He smiles serenely. "Sorry,  _Veronica."_

Veronica sighs exasperatedly. There it is. He made her sigh. Nyx damn him.

A part of her  _knows_  he’s right. A part of her  _knows_  like she knows her name that they are not human. They were not meant to be here. They were not meant for this life. Destined for it, maybe, or else they  _wouldn’t_  be here. Destined, maybe, but not originally  _made_ for. Like a dress a few sizes too small that has fabric added to it but is undeniably never the same again.

Her name was Discord. Her name…No, her name wasn’t Discord, it was…Inconsequential. What they  _called_  her was Discord. They called her this because this is what she was. She wasn’t a person, no, no matter how hard she tried to be. Deep down her soul was like a springboard. She was the physical manifestation of discordance. She was, consequentially, an absolute mess. And in this new state, being around her does not cause trouble. No, she has to concentrate to do that. Manipulate with charisma and smooth talking. It felt easier when she could fall back on waving a hand to make things happen. The frustration of actually getting up and walking to the bus stop to go across town is too much right now to try and return to her old self. She can feel her old self dying with every counted tick of Steve’s fucking clock.

With the thoughts comes Steve’s tentative question, and he says it calmly and coolly, making Veronica want to punch him in the face.

"Why did you choose that name?"

He has died, she whispers in her head. He has died and been resurrected as this young stranger sitting before her with a serene smile and the name Steven. Yeah, Veronica’s fist is itching now. Maybe a solid smack will make him  _move_  again.

"Steve, are you done with your work? Because I really need the car."

Avoid that gaze, fiddle with a fingernail, and fall back on the car. Dimitri’s car. She envies him, Dimitri. He got to see the old Steve. He got to love him. She’s too immature for such a task. Yeah, let a human take the difficult jobs.

"Yeah, ‘course. Ya didn’t answer my question, though."

Veronica hops off the desk and paces around the room. She takes off her gloves and hat. Too warm. Too much like home. The cat follows her with glowing eyes. Anxious from the audience she relents.

"I don’t know. It just…" Like two lives, she always  _had_  two names. And they just… "… _fit_ , I guess. You remember my name, right?" You’ve got to, she thinks at him. I told you never to say it, but you must remember.

"’Course I do. I just…always liked ‘Discord’ better."

Veronica visibly winces. Teeth ache and it’s not the cold. It’s her mind trying to fit centuries of memories into a human brain.

"That’s not true, and you know it." As the cat stares, she resists another urge. To take out a cigarette, no, fifty cigarettes, and light them. Maybe she could burn down Dimitri’s studio. Yeah, she could relive old times.

 _Nyx_ , how she misses old times. How she misses exclaiming "Nyx" and her sisters getting pissy. How she misses running her fingernails down Ares’ back in the heat of passion and smacking Steve upside the head. How she misses burning villages and mothers screaming. And the fights! Nyx, the fights, just from being around her! She could walk by a group of people perfectly content, having a meal and light conversation, and would leave them a chaotic mess of aggressive feeling. Nothing new. Nothing that wouldn’t have happened naturally, but then again, what  _was_  natural? It was work, it was life too, but it was also her job to get up at dawn and go out, invisible among the masses, and just emanate discordance. Nothing grows, no love or life can flourish without difficulty, without disharmony. No, she was necessary. A necessary evil. Shit, she had a competition going with her sister Aphrodite. Who was the bearer of make-up sex? Not Aphrodite. Oh, no. Would they even be fucking if not for Veronica? No. A little discord, a little fight, was good and healthy. She was a fucking blessing, a saint, a doctor rivaling Asclepius. Sure, she wasn’t invited to parties and sort of started the Trojan War, but who could blame her? It was natural.

Veronica had a name. A name she hated. A name that did not matter-of-factly state who and what she was. Okay, it did in Greek, but it was a beautiful name. A name Ares would call her at most…inopportune times. She hated it because he would call her by this name when she thought he  _loved_  her…and it turned out he did not.

"Eris," Steve murmurs, breaking the silence.

Veronica smokes an imaginary cigarette. She gazes out the window, fogging the glass with her breath. Yes, smoke. She misses smoke. It will kill her faster, but she craves it, though she really craves flame. In this body she cannot touch it. Flame, hot and comforting. Veronica wonders why she is not in Hell. She answers her question as she asks it. _I am not in Hell as it is known to be because I would revel in it. No, I am in the cold, drab, mortal city, dying slowly of boredom and old memories. I am in Hell._

"You don’t call me that because I told you long ago not to." She wonders what  _his_  real name is. What Ares would call him in the night.

She turns to Steve and stands in front of the desk. He also writes. When he learned to, she doesn’t know. Likely in someone else’s arms, just like old times. Learned how to fight and fuck from Ares, how to be a human from Dimitri. What did  _she_  ever teach him? She can’t remember. Probably nothing.

"And why did you choose  _your_  name?" Turn the tables, Veronica.

Steve shrugs. "I like the letter ‘S’?"

Liar. That wasn’t your name. What was it?

"Dimitri gave it to you."

Steve turns to look at the cat. He stretches a hand to beckon it over but it flicks its tail and turns its head as if to say, No, dice, pal. I’m not that easy.

"Yeah. Yeah, he did."

Veronica chews her lip and wonders why he is so damn  _still_. She can remember a time when Steve wouldn’t  _stop_  moving. A  _blur_  of motion, an energy, which loved above all else, a good laugh. His second love was being different, which conflicted with a yearning for acceptance. And his third love was, as could be expected, Ares.

Always Ares.

But Veronica could also remember a time when she couldn’t get them in a room together. Ares was the father figure. The authority. Steve feared him more than loved him. He feared her too, but she wasn’t as unpredictable or prone to violence as their bizarre guardian. At one time, long before, she could sit and be mellow and just absorb everything. Absorb the trees, absorb the sky, absorb Steve. They could burn a building together and it would be the most romantic act between any two people on the planet, because it was for their own selves and their own selves alone. The smoke would rise into the sky, curling and forming shapes like breath on a windowpane. Steve would take her hand and laugh and it would be a thousand ticks of that fucking clock in their apartment and Ares wouldn’t exist and certainly would not matter. For a moment. For just a  _moment_.

"Do you ever miss it? How things were before?" Veronica asks, thinking about curling smoke and handholding.

All she has to do is take a few steps, be brave, but no, she is Discord, she doesn’t have these feelings. She is Veronica; she doesn’t have these memories. She is neither. She is a woman standing in a studio with a cat giving her a look saying she is too pathetic to hope she could ever sort out these identities or ever have Steve the way she has always wanted. Ares is still here, watching. Maybe he is the cat, keeping tabs on her and making sure she doesn’t break the rules. Too serious. Far too much. She expects an answer anyway.

"Sometimes," is Steve’s curt reply.

His  _name_ …was Strife. No, his name was something else, but Strife is what they called him. Like Discord, he exuded trouble everywhere he went. He  _was_  trouble. He didn’t make it happen, he just  _was_. He existed and trouble was there. It was a simple life until Ares swept into it, under the guise of teacher and guardian, sweeping Strife’s heart away, whatever heart was there under the trouble. Never truly loved him. Hardly respected him. Took him as his own anyway and Strife didn’t mind a bit. He minded, but he didn’t show it. It was what he wanted, what he needed, at least that is what he would tell himself when he woke up and found Ares gone. Ares never stayed long.

Always  _moving_ , always full of energy. Couldn’t keep still. Had to go, had to be here, there, everywhere. Had to prove himself. Had to make Ares really love him, really care, really be  _proud_. Thought he managed, but no, it was a lie. Not true. Clung to trouble, clung to the job, and the power. Tried to feel like a person, while never crossing the line. Craved acceptance like oxygen, while wanting to be different, unique. Craved acceptance until the end. Sudden end of one life right before another beginning. Cool sharp death at the end of a blonde sociopath’s blade. Heard the crunch and the laugh and saw Ares’ eyes clouded with fear, anger, and…love? No, just a trick of the light.

"Yeah, I miss it," Steve breathes. Stronger, demanding Veronica’s eyes ( _when did he get so strong?_ ), he says, "I feel like a fraud, Discord. Every… _second_  a piece of me  _dies_ , and I struggle over it, wondering if it’s a good thing or not."

Veronica nods. Yeah, she feels like that all the time. She doesn’t want a cig anymore; she just wants to hold Strife in her arms. Not Steve, Strife. Can’t with the cat watching. Must be Ares. Gotta be. Same fucking self-satisfied  _smirk_  under those whiskers.

"I know. I know that feeling." So much. Too much in a sentence. Choking up. "Fuck." _Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. You’re weak if you cry._ "Strife, I don’t know if I can take this anymore." She sits on the desk, holding back tears. He gets up and goes to her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

"Shhh, Discord, it’s okay. You’re okay."

"No. I’m not. I’m  _not_ okay. I am the farthest possible feeling from okay." Pause. Choke. Grammar’s off. "I am the  _antithesis_  of okay. It’s fucking…I’m going  _crazy_ , Strife! I’m going fucking crazy in this body. I can’t take this."

Steve whispers nothings, noises, shushing in her ear. He strokes her head, brushing her hair out of her damp eyes. The cat watches silently. If she weren’t so upset, he’d never dare getting so close. She might scratch.

Veronica…No, Discord…No, Eris…Fuck, whatever her name is. She feels safe for the first time in a while. Safe and loved. Love? No, of course not. He’s just trying to get her to stop crying. Can’t go to Dennis’ now. Doctor? Boyfriend? Whoever it is that calls her delusional and tells her cows can’t talk. Can’t go now. Came to get the car. No, she doesn’t want it now; she just wants Steve to hold her for a thousand ticks of the clock. For a moment.

"Are you feeling better now?"

There aren’t any tears left. Humans are like that. Humans can’t shake the Earth when they are upset.

"Yeah."

It’s a lie. She’s just run out of tears. Why is he so  _still_  when he was always  _moving?_  It doesn’t make sense. Nothing about Wisconsin makes any sense. Not that Greece did, either. Her life as Veronica makes no sense, and neither did her life as Discord.

"You need the car, right? Can you drop me off at the apartment first?"

Veronica nods. He sounds so mature. His voice doesn’t jump and his words don’t slam into each other. She can still hear the California twang, though. What once was unusual is ordinary here. He’s human. By Nyx, he’s a fucking human.

She puts on her gloves and hat as Steve shuts off the impossible heat, shuts off his computer, and throws on a coat. They open the door and Wisconsin blasts cold – toothache cold – at them, reminding them, yes you are human. Yes, this is Wisconsin. No, it’s not a dream, or a nightmare. It is just the routine. The wind blows, the snow falls, and life goes on.

Veronica unlocks the car – also Dimitri’s. Dimitri who mysteriously left for Russia one day and never returned – and lets Steve in. She inserts the key into the ignition and the piece of junk gurgles and spurts to life. Summer will be better. Summer will mean hot cheese and pastrami sandwiches and walking down Tenth Street with the dead man’s name Veronica can’t remember. She thinks about this – she never used to sit and think and now it’s all she can do – as the cat watches them drive away, musing to itself what it all meant, what those charged feelings in the squat gray building all were, and with no shoulders to shrug, flicks its tail and walks off down the street to find some other couple of misfits to eavesdrop on, who maybe aren’t crazy and actually know their own names. It is still cold, so cold that the cat’s paws would likely freeze off, but this one cannot feel it. It can only feel surging power, ever since it ate a crust of orange bread (and he _never_ ate bread) lying on the sidewalk after a blonde-haired woman in pink dropped it. The cat wonders if there is any more orange bread someplace. He knows the misfits would appreciate it, but also knows they have a lesson too  _important_ to learn, which orange bread could ruin. It’s the lesson of being alive, and the cat muses too that it has thousands of ticks of the clock to listen to misfits wonder about their names. There are more in the city, he knows. It’s where they end up, because of some grand design. It’s the place to be, to learn to love life. It’s toothache cold, but that’s just it.

It’s Milwaukee.

**Author's Note:**

> *Dennis is Veronica's therapist-turned-boyfriend.  
> *Dimitri is Steve's ex-boyfriend, who left the country for reasons I never got around to writing, and gave Steve his art studio and apartment before he left.  
> *The "blonde woman in pink" is Aphrodite, duh.  
> *I have never been to Milwaukee and never bothered to research its geography when I wrote this, so I'm honestly not sure about the street names.  
> *The title is a lyric from the song "Get Over It" by OK Go.  
> *Takes place the winter of '98/99.  
> 


End file.
